It's bloody hard to see the place, stuck between the massive pines, but Eames makes it out and Arthur steers towards it, the truck skating along now more by luck than skill. The three of them bounce like rubber balls on the seats, the suspension creaking as Arthur manages to get the vehicle to skid just past the cabin and beyond it, next to a smaller building. Once the truck stops, they all take a minute to breathe, and Eames feels a jittery excitement that's warming him better than any fire.
"No lights, shutters closed," Ariadne tells them, peering out Arthur's side window. "Nobody's there, so if we get in, we should be safe."
"That's if we get in," Arthur reminds them. "At least our tracks will be gone in about twenty minutes at the rate it's coming down now."
"We'll get in all right, even if I have to shoot the bloody lock off," Eames breaks in. "I'm not spending the night out here—we'll fall asleep and freeze to death."
"It's a cabin," Ariadne mutters, "A summer place. There's a chance . . ." she hesitates, and both of them look at her, waiting. Eames loves how ruddy her cheeks are now that she's warm.
"A chance?" Arthur prompts, and she looks at him.
"That the keys are somewhere close by. People do that; they hide a spare set for a place like this because it's out of the way, and if they forget their original keys or lose them, they'd still want to be able to get in."
All three of them ponder that for a moment, and Eames sighs because it's logical, but still a long shot. A very long shot. He looks at Ariadne and asks, "So—where do we look, oh Miss Expert on cabins?"
She snickers, grinning. "Porch first."
They get out and trudge through the shin-deep snow, making their way to the front door of the place, and when they reach it, they start looking. There's a lot of debris on the porch; dead branches and other crap—nobody's been here for a while, Eames figures. Maybe years.
Arthur is the one to find them; he's pointing up, along the little roof, and sure enough, high up, there are some brown keys hanging on an equally rusted cup-hook screwed into one of the beams, almost blending in because they're so oxidized. It only takes a moment to retrieve them, and fit them to the lock.
The damned key won't turn. The rust is thick, and Eames shifts around in the cold as Arthur fumbles with the lock, trying to get it to open. Then Ariadne does the oddest thing—she makes Arthur pull the key out, then leans in and spits into the lock. The key goes back in, and with some slow wrenching, Arthur gets it to turn.
Eames snorts. "Magic gozz—now I've seen everything."
"Heat," Ariadne calls, and Arthur pushes open the door, which gives an unholy screech on its un-oiled hinges. They all push on it, and it swings reluctantly inward, into darkness.
"Hang on," Eames fishes in the pocket of the parka he has on; Hulk had been a smoker, apparently, and the little plastic lighter glows to life with two flicks from his thumb. He steps in front, holding the tiny light out, feeling both brave and tense, straining to see into the room.
It's still mostly dark, and smells of mildew and dust. Eames sees a rug and beyond it, the lumpy shape of a sofa. He takes a step further in, and swings his arm around slowly.
"Yeah, nobody's been here in a while," Arthur observes dryly, closing the door behind him. "Smells like my Aunt Edna's attic."
Ariadne is pressing behind Eames, and the feel of her against his spine is nice. "Doesn't mean we won't find something nasty," he reminds them both.
Arthur flanks him, and they move slowly, trying to see more of the room. The sofa is covered in horrible plaid fabric, but there's a blanket across the back of it, and a few more steps reveal a fireplace beyond it, dark and empty.
"Okay, that's promising," Ariadne nods approvingly.
000ooo000ooo000
"If we're staying," Arthur cautions, still on the alert. "No electricity and probably no water." He looks around, aware that while they've got shelter for the moment, there are other factors to be considered. A haven from the storm is good, yes, but sooner or later they're going to need water and food, and some sort of toilet arrangement.
"We've got snow for water— it's make do but there's enough if we find containers," Ariadne tells him. "Let's see the rest of the place."
Arthur nods and they keep shuffling together behind the tiny out-held flame of Eames' lighter. It would be funny if the situation wasn't so desperate, but gradually they make a circuit of the ground floor getting a feel for the place.
It's compact; fifteen steps in every direction roughly, with a couple of square posts in the middle of the room supporting some sort of loft overhead. At the back is a small corner kitchen with linoleum-topped counters, a wood-burning stove and bone dry tin sink, but there's a hand pump that stands on the end of it so that means a well. Arthur notes that the stairs are against one wall, and there's a small closed off room near a back door that could be anything from a pantry to a bathroom.
The fireplace is in the opposite corner from the kitchen, and there are a pair of mismatched upholstered chairs near it, along with a bookshelf, a rotary dial phone and a desk that looks as if it's been stolen from some military office somewhere.
Once they've circled the room, Arthur looks towards the stairs, hesitating, and he notes that in the tiny flame, both Eames and Ariadne are waiting for him to speak. He feels a rush of affection for them both, and clears his throat. "Okay, the storm's getting worse, so the way I see it, we bunk here for the night and wait it out; we can decide what else to do tomorrow, when we have more light, depending on if the storm passes or not."
"Agreed," Eames nods, "Although getting a fire started might be nice," but Ariadne is shaking her head.
"The flue will be shut," she tells him, "And there's probably a ton of collected debris in it. We'll need daylight to clean that out."
"Well this bloody lighter isn't going to last all night," Eames reminds them. "Any torches in the truck?"
"Probably," Arthur agrees, "Although if you and I are going to get them and anything else we need to make it quick, while we still have daylight."
"I want to look upstairs, first," Ariadne tells them firmly, and Arthur can hear her teeth chattering a little. "You're not leaving me alone with a family of raccoons, or a hornet's nest or whatever's up there!"
For the first time there's dissent; Arthur can see that Ariadne's going to be stubborn because she thrusts her chin out and stares him down. He notes that Eames is trying damned hard not to smirk.
"Fine," he tells them flatly. "We'll check. Eames, you've got the light-"
They climb the stairs, making them creak, the three of them still huddled together. Eames holds out the light, and Arthur looks around once they've reached the top.
It's a loft that's only half the size of the room down below, but up here there's a wardrobe, a dresser, a dusty mirror over the dresser, and a bed.
A double bed with an iron frame, pushed against one wall, the coverlet on it faded and dusty, but still—a bed.
Ariadne makes a little noise in her throat, and Eames grunts in agreement. "Oh agreed in spades, sweetheart; we'll sleep well tonight!"
Arthur protests. "We're not sleeping there."
"Why not?" Ariadne demands, and when she looks at him, he feels a rush of exasperation tinged with frustration. "It looks big enough for all of us."
"Because someone should be downstairs standing guard," Arthur points out bluntly. "By the door, in case anyone's followed us."
Eames laughs, and waves the lighter, making the flame flicker. "Darling, need I remind you that the late and unlamented Rossiter was moving us because of the major storm outside? Nobody's going to be moving through that bloody maelstrom tonight!"
He's right of course, and Arthur knows it too—just getting to the truck is going to be a major undertaking now and the bed looks tempting as hell, but there are priorities if they're going to survive.
"It's a long shot," Arthur concedes, "and we can discuss the sleeping arrangements later, but right now, we need what we can haul in from the truck. Agreed?"
The other two shoot an amused look between them that annoys him, but when Eames and Ariadne turn to Arthur, they nod.
The truck has a few useful things. There's a flashlight in the compartment on the door, along with another lighter, roadmaps and some duct tape. Inside the truck, Arthur and Eames open a few of the boxes and find cartons of frozen dinners in one, cleaning supplies in another, and several boxes with canned goods.
"Lovely to know we've got gallons of applesauce and vegetable soup," Eames comments dryly. "Although this cooking oil might work if we find some lamps. Any luck with, say blankets, or some loo paper?"
Arthur sighs. He's chilled to the bone, achy and tired; the adrenaline that helped him take on Rossiter and the other goons has faded, and it's all he can do not to snap at Eames, but right now, the damned bed is looking better and better. "So far the only thing here you can use to wipe your hairy ass is the manifesto. Why the hell would they be shipping in so much detergent? It's not like they had a ton of laundry to do."
Eames stops and steps over, squatting down next to Arthur, close enough so that his frozen breath puffs against Arthur's cheek. It feels good, oddly. Eames gives him a somber look. "You know, none of us have our totems, pet. For all we know—seriously know—all this could be a dream."
Arthur nods. "Yeah, I thought of that too. But it's not limbo, and if it IS a dream, then we can stick it out until a kick comes, or we wake up. It's all we can do."
Eames looks slightly comforted; he reached out and pats Arthur's cheek. "Real or not, we need to get back—you're going to be frostbitten if we don't."
They make only three trips before Arthur insists they stop; neither he nor Eames can feel their feet anymore, and even their parkas can't keep out the bite of the howling wind. Ariadne has found a dried stub of a candle in a holder on the fireplace mantle, along with matches, so they have some light, feeble as it is.
000ooo000ooo000
She makes them brush the snow off their parkas. "Okay, we're going to eat, and then we're going to bed. No. Arguments." She tells them, cutting off Arthur's protests. "Damn it, we've had a hell of a long day, and it's not as if we've got energy to burn, Arthur."
Ariadne's relieved to see him agree; he's been through winters in Maine so Arthur understands the risks of hypothermia as well as she does. They sit in the little living room, slurping cold vegetable soup from the cans that Eames opens with the Swiss Army knife.
"Not to be indelicate, but we're going to need facilities for bodily functions at some point," he reminds them. "Any suggestions, since I haven't seen anything so far."
"The little room by the kitchen is a pantry," Ariadne tells them in a resigned tone. "Canned stuff, fishing equipment, gardening stuff, tools—no toilet."
"Place probably has an outhouse," Arthur gloomily sighs. "It would have to be at least fifty feet from the cabin so it doesn't contaminate the well. Frankly, I'd rather take a leak out the back door than make that hike in this storm."
Ariadne sighs, and feels her face go red, but it's got to be said. "We'll just have to use one of the garden buckets, for the time being. God, when we get back to civilization, I for one am never going to take a toilet for granted ever again."
And she won't. Ariadne's glad to be alive, yes, but the cost to her self-esteem hasn't been easy. She's never thought of herself as vain, but it's hard to cope with dirty hair and hairy legs.
"Here, here," Eames mutters, "have some applesauce."
An hour later, after they've bolted the doors from the inside, put away their supplies and warmed up a bit, Ariadne leads them up the stairs to the loft. The wind rattles the roof with every mournful gust, and the candle flickers, but the bed is still there. Ariadne moves over and tugs on the coverlet. "No sheets, damn it."
"Dresser," Arthur murmurs, and squats down, pulling out the bottom drawer. The sheets are there; a yellow set incongruously decorated with daisies. Eames laughs.
"Lovely. Let's make the bed, shall we?"
And they do. Ariadne is aware of tension in her stomach, tension that has nothing to do with the cold. It's been a hell of a day, and between the stress and fear and adrenaline, she knows it's only a matter of time before she cries, but for the moment, Ariadne is holding it at bay.
They make the bed, covering it with the chilly sheets, the musty coverlet and the extra blanket from the sofa downstairs. The pillows are ancient down, settled into rock-like piles, but Ariadne doesn't care. She starts slipping out of her boots and looks at Eames. "Underwear."
"Pardon?"
"Your jumpsuit pants and socks are damp," Ariadne points out. "Drape them on the foot of the bed and they'll dry. Arthur, same thing."
"Bossy, isn't she?" Eames murmurs, reluctantly undoing his parka and quickly unzipping the jumpsuit.
"Unfortunately, she's right," Arthur replies, and Ariadne ducks her head, stripping out of her own jumpsuit. She should be used to nudity around these two; they've showered together enough, but this is different, and she knows it.
She knows that they know it too.
"I'm in the middle," Ariadne chatters. "Eames, g-g-get in."
"Fine," he grunts, and slides in, moving closest to the wall, yipping like a puppy. "Christ that's cold!" The mattress springs creak as he rolls to his side, beckoning Ariadne in. "Hurry!"
She dives, sliding on the cotton daisies and nearly collides with Eames; his warmth is magnet enough and Ariadne squeezes close, looking over her shoulder. "Arthur, come on!"
Slowly he squats and looked under the bed, then smirks up at her as he pulls out something white and mug-shaped. "Jesus, it's a fucking chamber pot."
"Wonderful. Terrific—Arthur, get in BED!"
He pushes it back, quickly blows out the candle and sets it on the dresser, before sliding into the bed. Ariadne lets out a happy groan because she's now sweetly sandwiched between two warm bodies.
The blankets are heavy and although the wind is howling, the warmth is quickly spreading. They all shift a bit, struggling to get comfortable, and the bumping of elbows and knees and hips make the bedsprings creak. The mustiness is almost sweet, though, and gradually they all settle in quietly.
Ariadne feels drowsiness seep through her; the good kind, borne of warmth and relaxation and contentment. Eames is on her right, Arthur on her left, and for the moment, all is right with her world.
She falls asleep.